


The Awful Things That I've Seen

by ThePaintedScorpionDoll



Series: Scenes from a War-Forged Courtship [14]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Abuse, Aeron Tabris, Aeron/Alistair, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Physical Abuse, Tabristair - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 09:22:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6512581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePaintedScorpionDoll/pseuds/ThePaintedScorpionDoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Alistair, the worst horrors may not exist on the battlefield.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Awful Things That I've Seen

They meet in the main hall of Arl Eamon’s estate, Alistair arriving alone as the letter asked. Eamon is already there waiting for him. When their gazes meet, Alistair stops. Something doesn’t feel right. Something about the way the arl looks at him, perhaps—cold, commanding—makes him nervous. It reminds him of when he was a boy, of when the arl called him aside to announce that Alistair was going to live in the abbey and become a templar long after the decision was made. He draws in a hesitating breath.

“You wanted to see me?”

“I did, yes—” Eamon nods once. “I wanted to speak with you on the matter of your coronation.”

Alistair narrows his eyes. “My…coronation?”

“Yes.”

“You’re joking.” A beat of uneasy silence passes. “You are, aren’t you?”

Eamon’s expression does not change. “Why would I jest about this?”

“Because that’s not—” Alistair shakes his head. His unease grows. “No, Eamon, we discussed this already, remember? I am not going to be king. We agreed to support Anora in her claim to the throne.”

“I have not forgotten.” Eamon draws himself up straight. “However, we _must_ reconsider.”

“No,” he answers firmly. “There is nothing to reconsider!”

“Alistair, your fate is tied to the fate of Ferelden. Whether you like it or not, this became your burden to bear the moment Cailan drew his final breath—”

“I don’t want it!”

“That is not a choice you get to make! Not anymore!” Eamon’s voice carries the weight of his authority. “How can you not understand that your destiny is to ascend to the throne, to restore Ferelden to what it once was? How can you remain so willfully resistant?”

“Because I am not as naive as you would have me be! Not anymore.” Alistair squares his shoulders. “I am no longer the unwanted bastard child so easily sent off, so easily led. I have found a place where I am wanted, a means by which I can _and will_ carve my own path, and that is _with the Wardens._ The sooner you understand that, the better off we all are.”

The arl stares at him hard for a long moment. The unease within Alistair only grows ever stronger. Something in the air feels wrong. It is too still, too quiet. Not even the servants are around. Where is everyone else? Why, if he wanted to meet privately, did Eamon ask Alistair to meet here?

Why does this suddenly feel like a trap?

Eamon breaks the silence first.

“I see.”

Two guards enter the hall, their faces obscured by their helms, and they are not alone. Aeron is swearing an angry streak as they drag her between them. She goes quiet the moment her gaze sets on the arl and Alistair. Confusion blooms on her face.

“What the hell is going on? I’m preparing for the Landsmeet and these two _assholes_ just _grab me_ and the next thing I know…” She looks at both men. “Is someone going to answer me?”

Silence. Eamon turns towards the guards and gives a simple nod. One steps in front of Aeron, blocking her from Alistair’s view, but not before he sees the look of suspicion on her face.

“Alistair, what is going _on—!_ ”

Her voice is cut off by the fist that backhands into her face, the sound echoing into the rafters. Alistair’s stomach twists as he watches Aeron’s head snap hard to the side before she crumples to the floor. Before she can even start to push herself back onto her feet, the second guard draws close and kicks her in the side. The first guard joins in, shoving the air from her body as they catch her square in the stomach. Alistair rushes forward--

“Aeron!”

—and two pairs of hands seize his wrists, belonging to more guards with faceless helms. Alistair twists, he pulls; no sooner does he get his wrists free than more hands descend to restrain him up to his shoulders. The harder he struggles, the tighter their grip. Where did they come from? How had he not heard them come in?

“Keep him still,” Eamon orders. “He is not to interfere.”

“Eamon, what the hell are you doing?” Alistair shakes off a few hands, only to be grabbed again—and tighter still. _“Why—?!”_

“Because it must be done.”

“ _Bastard_ —” Aeron is almost to her feet, breathing hard, before one of the guards draws out a club and slams it against her back. “Y-you…planned this. You did—!”

“Alistair cannot escape his birthright. It is in his blood.” Eamon’s face is impassive. His tone is cold. “ _You_ and your Wardens are a hindrance to his destiny—a lovely distraction that he refuses to give up.”

“Fuck you.” Aeron balls her left hand into a fist. “I-I’ll fucking _show you—_ ”

She doesn’t. Instead, she screams as the empty-handed guard slams their foot against her left wrist, shattering the bones within. The second guard’s club comes down against her back again. A dark rattling sound fills the hall— _laughter_ , Alistair realizes with a sudden horror, coming both from the guards continuing their merciless assault on Aeron and the guards holding him hostage.

“Since Alistair will not give you up,” Eamon continues in that cold voice, “you must be dealt with another way. You must be removed.”

Removed?

The meaning is obvious. The terror of it leaves Alistair cold.

“No—”

 _“Fuck—you—”_ Aeron spits blood. “You fucking coward—”

“No, _no—!_ ” Alistair shakes his head. “No, you can’t do this—Eamon, you _can’t—!_ ”

He struggles forward, putting every ounce of his strength into breaking free, the anger building in his chest. This has to stop. By any means necessary, Alistair has to stop this before it goes any further. He has to save Aeron before they kill her. They have to escape— _together!_ —and they have to get back to the others. Quickly, before it’s far too late, they have to escape and they have to warn their friends that _something_ —be it Eamon going mad, or a demon possessing him, or something entirely different—has gone horribly, horribly _wrong_. The others have to find out. They have to know. _Quickly, urgently, before it comes after them next, they HAVE to find out!_ It’s up to Alistair to tell them, _COMPLETELY UP TO HIM_ to save them all, so he _has_ to find the strength he needs to free himself _and he has it_ — _he DOES—HE KNOWS HE DOES. HE HAS THE STRENGTH IN THERE SOMEWHERE. HE’S ONLY TRAINED MOST OF HIS NATURAL LIFE TO BE A WARRIOR HASN’T HE SO WHERE IS IT WHERE IS ALL THAT TRAINING AND STRENGTH WHERE IS IT WHERE IS IT WHERE IS IT WHERE_

“Stop—!”

_OH MAKE US MAKE US STOP MAKE US STOP MAKE US STOP IF YOU WERE STRONG YOU’D MAKE US STOP WHERE IS YOUR STRENGTH WHERE IS YOUR TRAINING WHERE IS YOUR HEART WHERE IS YOUR LOYALTY WHERE IS IT WHERE IS IT MAKE US STOP MAKE US STOP MAKE US STOP IF YOU LOVE HER YOU’LL MAKE US STOP YOU’LL BREAK YOURSELF FREE IF YOU LOVE HER YOU WILL SAVE HER DO YOU LOVE HER DO YOU REALLY MAKE US STOP MAKE US STOP MAKE US STOP WHERE IS YOUR STRENGTH WHERE IS YOUR TRAINING WHERE IS IT WHERE IS IT WHERE_

“STOP! STOP THIS!” The anger burns white-hot inside of him. Alistair twists. He pulls at risk of injury. He gets his hands free barely long enough to cherish the moment before they grab him again. “LET ME GO—!”

_WORTHLESS WORTHLESS WORTHLESS BASTARD YOU CAN’T FREE YOURSELF BECAUSE YOU KNOW IT’S TRUE IT’S TRUE IT’S TRUE YOU’RE WORTHLESS NOTHING SPECIAL JUST A BASTARD THROUGH AND THROUGH AND OTHERS SEE IT THEY SEE IT IN YOUR FACE YOU’RE NOTHING YOU’RE CONVENIENT YOU’RE USEFUL AS A PAWN EVEN AS A KING YOU’D BE JUST A PAWN JUST A PAWN JUST A WORTHLESS LITTLE PAWN YOU’RE NOTHING NOTHING NOTHING WORTHLESS JUST WORTHLESS PATHETIC A PAWN A PAWN A PAWN_

Alistair tries to shut the roar of rattling voices out—tries to ignore how it does not drown out the sound of Aeron’s pain. If he can just _get to her_ , get them both _FREE_ —

But with every move he makes, the hands grip ever tighter. They start to drag him backwards two steps for every one Alistair manages to take towards Aeron. He screams and swears at them to let him go, to release him, to _STOP THIS_ —

“Hold him tight,” Eamon commands. “Make sure he sees this to the last, so that he might learn there are laws by which even a king must abide.”

“Eamon, no—NO, PLEASE—!” An angry sob escapes the back of Alistair’s throat as a new pair of hands grabs a tight handful of his hair. “EAMON! Eamon, please don’t do this, please…”

But the arl turns away to watch with that same impassiveness as the guards continue to torment Aeron’s bruised and breaking body. Her blood stains the stone floor and colors her white hair. At least one of her eyes is ruined. Fragments of teeth lay scattered near her bleeding mouth. Her fingers are at impossible angles. Every attempt to rise, to escape, has been robbed from her but somehow…

_HOW HOW HOW IMPOSSIBLE IMPOSSIBLE IT SHOULDN’T BE SHE SHOULDN’T BE IT MAKES NO SENSE WHAT IS THIS WHY IS SHE STILL BREATHING WHY IS SHE ALIVE SHE SHOULDN’T BE ALIVE HOW HOW HOW IMPOSSIBLE UNNATURAL IMPOSSIBLE UNNATURAL IMPOSSIBLE UNNATURAL HOW HOW HOW HOW HOW_

“Strong of will, this one. She might have made a fine queen,” Eamon sighs. “Pity, the nature of her birth.”

“Alistair…” Aeron sounds so weak. How can she still hold on like this? How has the agony alone not killed her? “Alistair—listen—”

“I’m sorry! I’m s—I’m so—Aeron, I’m sorry—” Alistair sobs. He tries to hang his head and they pull his hair. “Aeron, I _can’t!_ I can’t fight them—they’re too—”

“Alistair—”

“They’re _too strong!_ They just—” The laughter is so loud it sets his bones shaking. “Forgive me. _Maker_ , f—forgive—forgive me, please. I can’t—I can’t. They’re too…” The tears mercifully blur his vision. “I can’t—I’m sorry—!”

“Wake up.” She gasps, deep and scraping; surely on the edge of her last breath. “Alistair—” She coughs up blood. “—w-wake—!”

The guard’s club lands heavy against the side of her skull.

“AERON—!”

Alistair bolts upright, the scream a dying echo in his mind. He is gasping for breath and drenched in cold sweat. His hands grip the blankets hard enough to hurt. Where is he? Why is it so dark?

A calm voice drifts upward from the edge of his mind: _It is dark because it is night. You are in the tent you share with Aeron, in a camp just off the road leading to Denerim, where you are going to attend the Landsmeet._

Right. Of course. That’s true (or, at the very least, sounds true enough). That leaves one more question.

“Where’s—?” The final image flashes vivid in his mind and he panics. “Oh no—no—!”

Still gripped in his panic, he flings away the blankets that might hide proof it was no mere nightmare. Because that’s really all it was, wasn’t it? That _has to be_ all it was—

“Oh—”

Yes. Yes, that’s all it really was. What further proof does he need beyond seeing her curled up on her side of their makeshift bedding in naught but her smalls? Scars and bruises of old battles aside, she is fine. Whole. Alive. _Safe._

Or, at least, as safe as any of them can be.

And he knows, even as he brushes her hair back from her face and gently trails his fingers down her side, that Aeron can protect herself. He knows! He has seen it! He knows she is strong, and that she has even rescued _him_ more than once. The real Aeron— _his_ Aeron, his queen, his precious rose—would not have been so easily beaten. Not without a damn hard fight. But Alistair is still relieved when he feels her side rise and fall with each breath. He is still driven by the desire to keep harm as far away from her as his strength will allow. And he has that strength, that training.

Doesn’t he?

His thoughts are interrupted by the way Aeron curls tighter around herself, the tips of her ears ticking upward. A soft moan escapes her lips. Her brow furrows. By the time Alistair thinks to retrieve the blankets, she begins to stir. Her eyelids flutter open. Their gazes meet just as he begins to cover her.

“Alistair?”

Her voice is whisper-soft and tinged with sleep. Alistair’s breath catches in his chest. Small sounds clamber up the back of his throat. Before he can even stop himself, his limited vision blurs and…

“Alistair?” She is much more awake now. “What—?”

“I’m sorry—” He drops the blankets, tries to stifle his distress. “I just—”

“No, don’t worry. What’s—?” Aeron sits up. She reaches up and takes his face in her hands. “Alistair, what’s wrong, my love? Why are you crying?”

But Alistair can barely speak, the sobs are so strong. He shakes as he takes her hands in his and presses kisses into her palms. They stay that way, her hands clasped between his, until he can stop himself long enough to form words.

“You—you’re here.” He sniffles. “You’re safe—”

“I am,” Aeron says. “I’m right here.”

“They didn’t— You’re still— Oh, Maker.” Deep breath in, shuddering breath out. He can do this. He can stay calm. “Maker, I was so…I was so scared. I was—I was _terrified_! I…I had to watch—”

“Shhh…”

“—and I—! I couldn’t stop them—” His voice begins to break. The rattling laughter is in his ears again, cruel and mocking. “I couldn’t stop—”

It’s too much. Too vivid. Too _real_.

“Oh, Alistair—”

“I just wanted them _to stop_ —” He pulls her to him and ducks his head beneath hers, wanting just to be wrapped in her embrace. “They wouldn’t—they just—”

“Shhh… “ Aeron rubs his back. She leaves kisses in his hair. “Relax, my love. It’s over now. It’s over.”

Then why doesn’t it _feel_ over? Why does it still feel like, at any moment, this peace will fall apart into some new horror? It won’t. Alistair _knows_ that it won’t. He feels it in the solace that he finds within the warmth of Aeron’s arms, in the stability that is the steady drumming of her heartbeat. _This_ is real. This moment, and the next one, and the next… This is what’s real. Not what he saw in those horrible moments. Not what the rattling voices said. _This._ This comfort, this safety and the love it comes from…

“Maker, but it felt so…” Alistair swallows. He shuts his eyes. “It was. In the moment, it was so _real_ and I…”

Aeron shushes him gently. “I know, my love. These nightmares always get the best of us in the moment, don’t they? But it’s over now.” She brushes away the last of his tears. “It wasn’t real.”

“It wasn’t.”

And in the midst of it all, some part of him knew it, didn’t he? Some part of him, however small…

“Come on.” Aeron starts to shift from his lap. “Come lie down.”

“I love you. I just…” Cupping her face in his hands, Alistair kisses her hard, savoring the soft moan she breathes into his mouth and finding comfort in the way she melts against him. “Oh, Aeron, I love you so.”

“And I love you.” She gives him a more gentle kiss in return. Whatever fears lingering in his mind scatter to the shadows. “Come on. I’ll help you keep the nightmares at bay.”

And Alistair believes her, doesn’t he?

Of course he does.

At Aeron’s side, even miracles seem possible.


End file.
